


Office Wife

by fallen_woman



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_woman/pseuds/fallen_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He may act like he wants a secretary, but most of the time they're looking for something between a mother and a waitress." Sometimes, even Pete Campbell gets it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Wife

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://fallen-woman.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [mad men](http://fallen-woman.livejournal.com/tag/mad+men)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **there is room beneath your bed, just for me** _

Title: Office Wife  
Fandom: Mad Men  
Characters: Pete + Hildy (gen)  
Rating: PG  
Summary: "He may act like he wants a secretary, but most of the time they're looking for something between a mother and a waitress." Sometimes, even Pete Campbell gets it right.   
Warning: Major spoilers for "Shut the Door. Have a Seat."

  
Once the euphoria of purloined files, giddy promises (Bert clapping him on the shoulder, Roger smiling at him like he was the prettiest girl at the ball, Joan laughing softly at everything) and Trudy's sandwiches had abated, it was Hildy he felt the worst about.

Kenny Account Something Something had made his own Atlantic-trussed bed a long time ago, Kinsey had been diminishing returns since Maidenform, and Pete could still take or leave Harry. Kurt and Smitty were more Peggy's pals (a short man and a homosexual — Pete wondered about Peggy's taste in male company) than anything else.

No, it was Hildy that brought on the hum of guilt under the roar of Sterling Cooper Draper Campbell Pryce taking flight. Draper Campbell Pryce. He liked the sound of that. Mostly "Draper Campbell."

He had planed on leaving Sterling Cooper for weeks, but he had imagined a more — dignified farewell, perhaps with Hildy tearing into a coarse cambric handkerchief that scraped the skin around her eyes. Whispering "thank you" into the pique of his suit lapel, where no one could see her cry. After all, Hildy had been his secretary longer than Trudy had been his wife. One had to recognize these kinds of bonds.

So Wednesday night, after buttering HoHo (naturally, HoHo was beyond enthused about Pete striking out on his own) and paying obeisance to Trudy's father, Pete fished Hildy's home phone from the calfskin emergency address book Trudy kept in their night drawer and dialed.

"Hello?" She sounded tired. Pete loosened his tie and widened his mouth, hoping the smile would spread to his voice.

"Hildy! This is Pete. How are you?"

"Mr. Campbell?" He heard her shift the phone, perhaps from one hand to the other. "I'm—fine."

Pete peeled off his socks and sprawled backwards, dangling his feet off the edge of the bed. Trudy was in the bathroom, showering. "I'm sorry; I should have told you sooner. You must have been terribly confused."

"Allison spent Monday morning crying at her desk. She said Don didn't even leave a note."

Pete nodded in slow motion. "That's unfortunate. How did everyone react?"

"You'd have to ask everyone."

"Keeping it close to the vest, Hildy. That's very professional of you. I really want to know, though, how you are doing." He tilted the handset away from his mouth as he slipped out a yawn.

"I'm assigned to Mr. Kinsey now."  
Trying to ignore the sudden ache in his stomach, Pete squeezed the black phone cord with his left hand and wound it around his wrist. "Christ. I am sorry. Well, at least you won't have to deal with me anymore."

"Mr. Campbell—" He visualized her posture getting even straighter with impatience.

"I was so excited when I found out you were my secretary. It was like getting a puppy." He paused. "And then you hated me. For three years, you hated me, and it was just starting to get better."

For the first time, her voice faltered. "I'm not sure what you want me to say to make this better."

"I don't know," he murmured, pressing a pillow to his stomach. "I sort of imagined myself just—talking at you."

Hildy took a long breath. "I spoke to Joan. It seems very exciting, what you're doing."

Trust Joan to get to his own secretary first. "This is hush-hush, but. It's like a clubhouse in here. Harry and Roger fight for space on the bed in between commercials."

"I'm glad Harry went."

Pete laughed. "When Bert gave him the pitch, he asked for his wife, first thing. Hasn't changed at all."

"That's good. Mr. Campbell, I… I have to go."

"Well, don't let me keep you. Good night, dear."

"Goodbye, Peter."

He waited for her to hang up first. By the time Trudy emerged from the shower, she found her husband flopped asleep in his work clothes, with the handset beeping softly in his limp fingers.

**********

Thursday morning, Pete couldn't concentrate.

One year ago, he thought as he stared at the market graphs in his hands. One year ago, the girl across the desk from him sat on a couch and performed transubstantiation. She passed her beatific hand over his ribcage and turned everything inside to gunpowder. One year ago, his secretary came in after hours and found him sitting at his desk with a rifle in his hand. One year, ago, his secretary pried the rifle from his grip and guided him to the couch.

_Mr. Campbell, I'm going to call you a cab. _

I thought we were going to be a team. It's not like anything in the commercials. I can't even. I can't even come up with a picture. It's like—running water, in the dark. You don't know where it is, but you can feel it. If you wait long enough, you can feel it.

I'm going to make you some tea.

You think it's just her and you, in this breath of space. And then you find out there's this, this third thing, pushing between you. And you'll never be able to touch her again, because you've become this third thing.

Mr. Campbell, what you're describing is a marriage.

Pete shoved the papers in the nearest file, gave a curt nod to Peggy, and scribbled instructions to Joan before walking out the suite. One had to recognize these kinds of bonds.

**********

Three days before Christmas, two packages arrived at Hildy's doorstop. The first box, expertly wrapped in creamy curlicue ribbon, held a pink cashmere scarf. "Dear Hildy," the note read, "Merry Christmas. For the chilly commute. I don't recommend wearing this color so close to your face, but you seem to like this shade. All the best, Peter Campbell."

The second box, long and heavy, had no note and no decoration.

Years later, Hildy's husband—a veterinarian with gentle, myopic eyes and scarred hands—would ask her why she kept an unloaded hunting rifle in the attic.

Years later, Hildy still couldn't explain why.


End file.
